


Flesh

by a_taller_tale



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Sex Pollen, Sexual Tension, Temple of Procreation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 21:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12219459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: If Tucker’s made-up story about the bachelorette party is turning Grif on, maybe the Temple of Procreation is making something happen after all...





	Flesh

When Santa announces in a deep voice that they’ve activated the Temple of Procreation, everyone freezes in place. 

“What the fuck, Tucker?” Grif says. They’re just on their way back to base after a _really tough battle_ against some dudes that should have definitely killed them. There should be a hard limit to the Blue Team Problems they have to put up with. They should have at least hit their daily quota already. 

“Uh, oops?” Tucker tries. 

“Fix it!” Simmons demands, his voice cracking, but Santa won’t be called back. The AI probably decided to check out before things got messy. Grif can’t blame him. He’d check out if he could too. There are certain people he _never_ wants to see have sex. 

No one feels any different right away, but Doctor Grey is notified so emergency contraception can be administered throughout the colony just in case. By the time they get back to home base and eat and start coming down from the adrenaline high of the final battle, it’s looking like nothing will happen at all. 

They’re just sitting around, armor shucked since there’s no one to fight anymore, shooting the shit, drinking a little, and hanging out. 

Grif keeps playing with the hem of his shirt, not used to the texture of actual fabric against his skin anymore. At first it felt pretty good, but now it’s getting kind of hot. The under suits being more breathable than cotton blend doesn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe the temperature controls in the room are fucked up. He takes a swig of his beer, and then presses the perspiring bottle against his forehead. 

Simmons is sitting beside him, a little slack jawed and glazed over, probably tired. Grif doesn't say anything or shrug him off when Simmons leans against him more as they listen to the story Tucker's telling. 

The story’s starting to make less and less sense—the fiancé decided to join in? Really? But the words don’t matter anyway. There are plenty of hand gestures. Tucker has good hands. He runs those hands up and down his legs as he talks, humming and licking his lips, getting less animated and more throaty as time passes. It’s mesmerizing. 

Tucker’s a good looking guy objectively—even though he has nothing on Grif’s own handsome face—but thinking that way about _Tucker_ is way too fucking weird. And if Tucker’s made-up story about fucking an entire bachelorette party is turning Grif on, the Temple of Procreation must be making something happen after all. 

Wash’s knuckles brush against Grif’s calf, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. Grif isn’t into _that_ killjoy at all. It's when Simmons starts squirming, hot breath hitting Grif’s ear when he sighs, that Grif realizes it's time to get the fuck out of here. He doesn’t dare look at Simmons’ face as he retreats. 

Grif can feel the heat slowly pooling in his abdomen, filling out his dick to the beat of his heart as he looks for somewhere to hole up til this shit blows over. 

He passes three couples already making out in the halls and has a passing interest in joining them, but if he was in his right mind he would _not_ be thinking of any of the idiots in either of the Chorus armies that way. 

He finally makes it to one of his favorite hiding places, a supply closet on the third floor, complete with a bucket he can turn over to sit on. 

Hiding is definitely the best option. Or it is until Simmons appears and shuts himself in. Grif’s hand flies away from his pants guiltily. “What the fuck, dude?” 

Simmons jumps. “Grif? What are you doing here? You didn’t lock the door!” 

“This is my spot.” Grif says, carefully not reacting to Simmons’ eyes flicking down to the obvious boner that’s not being hidden by his jeans at all. He looks back up. And then back down. Pretty fucking rude, _and_ it’s sending a little extra thrill down his stomach to see the heat in his eyes, which is fucking unfair. But everyone on Chorus would probably nail a wall right now, so Simmons' lingering eyes don't mean anything. 

“It’s not _your spot._ You can’t call dibs on a closet!” Simmons’ face is attractively flushed in the dim fluorescent lights, all along his high cheekbones and down his neck. 

“I just fucking did! Get out!” His own voice cracks a little at the end, which he’s usually careful not to let happen, but Simmons needs to get the fuck out right now before something happens. Something’s going to happen. 

Simmons growls, which makes Grif’s scalp prickle, but he thankfully reaches for the door handle. Good. He’ll go anywhere the fuck else and neither of them will do anything they regret or ever speak of this night again. 

An aborted _click._ The door doesn’t open. 

Simmons jiggles the knob again. Then he shakes it harder. It’s locked. 

_Holy fuck._

Grif’s hands clench and unclench. “Did you just lock yourself in a closet with me during a _sex frenzy_?!” 

“I—I didn’t mean to! I—Shit— _FUCK_!” Simmons grips at his hair, chewing on his lip in agitation. Grif wonders how red he could get it with his teeth… 

“Grif?” Simmons asks, and he sounds worried. The face he was making must have been weird. 

Grif throbs, and he barely keeps himself from adjusting anything in front of Simmons. “When did you realize something was happening?” he chokes out, desperate for a distraction. 

“There was you _running_ out of the room without saying anything—thanks for that, by the way. Then Sarge started laughing all weird and making uncomfortable eye contact with Agent Washington.” Simmons shudders. 

God, Grif wants to make him shudder more. “Gross,” he says instead. 

“Uh—” Simmons scratches at the back of his neck, then gestures vaguely to indicate the opposite end of the closet. “I’m gonna be over here.” 

He can’t stop looking at Simmons and being hyper aware of him, and even if Simmons goes over there, as far away as they can be from each other, it won’t stop Grif from wondering how he smells and tastes. He makes so many good expressions already when Grif teases him. What’s he gonna look like when he gets off— “You need to _leave_ ,” Grif insists. 

“Why don’t you try the door then!” Simmons bitches back. 

Grif would, but he isn’t sure he can walk right now, and if he moves any closer to Simmons he might… he might… “You’re so fucking hot,” Grif blurts out. 

Simmons swallows. “What?” 

“I said you’re so fucking dumb.” 

Simmons doesn’t look like he believes him, but he’s shuddering and squirming some more with Grif’s eyes on him, and he hasn’t moved further away. “So, this is bad.” 

“No shit,” Grif says. 

Simmons mops his forehead with his hand and then it graduates into rubbing his eyes, and then his lips, and then he seems to glaze over, unaware of what torture this is for Grif, and sucks his middle and forefingers into his mouth, almost as if to self-soothe. 

Grif stops breathing. 

Simmons makes a slight noise of distress, leaning with his back against the door and he lets his other hand trail back down to his pants. His face is bright red and he looks embarrassed, but he cups himself through his jeans. 

Grif mirrors the gesture. It can’t last forever, right? It feels like it’s been hours already. A short eternity of knowing what Simmons looks like when he’s turned on, and not able to do anything about it. Forbidden knowledge. He shouldn’t know that his best friend can look like this. He’s usually so neat and now he’s all messed up and they’re so fucked up right now that Simmons is touching himself in front of Grif. Watching Grif flirt with the idea of spontaneous combustion. 

But, if they don’t do something to alleviate some tension, who knows what could happen, right? They could die or something. That’s what happens on TV when people don’t fuck when they’re hopped up on alien hormones. 

“We could just… We could just jerk off in separate corners,” Grif gasps out, a wave of heat traveling up his body to the ends of his hair and back down thinking of getting himself off in the same room as Simmons. 

Sure, it’s happened before, sharing a room for over a decade, shit happens. Everybody masturbates. But they always pretended to be asleep. Neither of them ever listened to each other’s noises, or wondered what they looked like when they were getting off, or what they were thinking about. That would be weird. 

Simmons’ eyes are half-lidded, and who knew the nerd was capable of _bedroom eyes?_ “O-okay,” he says in a voice that should be X-rated all by itself. “Oh fuck…” Simmons sighs out, biting his lip, rubbing the shape of himself through his pants. “I can’t stop. Oh fuck.” 

Grif’s breath catches, his scalp prickling and chills crawling up his back, every one of his hairs standing on end as he watches Simmons lose any last scraps of self-consciousness, pulling his dick out of his pants. 

“You look so good, Grif,” Simmons whimpers, stroking himself slowly. The hand still wet from his mouth goes up under his shirt and Grif can only imagine he brushed his fingers across a nipple when he gasps. 

Grif’s lips part, and he stares at Simmons open-mouthed, completely forgetting what he should be doing with his own hands, his neglected cock throbbing insistently. A whine escapes him, a noise so desperate and longing Grif doesn’t even recognize it as coming from himself at first. 

Simmons’ eyes lock on his, and he stumbles forward like Grif pulled him, the sound of his shoes scraping echoing in the room. Grif doesn’t stop him, breath shallow, can’t stop staring up at him. 

Simmons lowers himself and settles in Grif’s lap, his weight hitting just right. From the look on Simmons’ face, he can feel how hard Grif is under him. “Grif,” he breathes. “Grif…” 

He rocks forward experimentally, and Grif gulps in air, his hands going to Simmons hips to hold on, feeling like he’s about to fall over the edge of a cliff. “Simmons—” he chokes out, overwhelmed. 

Simmons looks surprised, and then full of wonder. He does it again, rocking forward until his own hard-on is brushing Grif’s stomach. 

Grif shudders, taking in that pale flesh mixed with metal and he never thought this would happen, how is this happening, they have to _stop_ before— He bites his lip, hard, trying to get the pain to call back his sanity, but it’s far too late now. 

“Please…” Simmons whispers, pulling Grif's shirt up and over his head, laying a hesitant hand on Grif’s chest, “Please let me…” His dick is pressed against Grif’s belly and all of this feels so surreal. 

Metal fingers leave a trail of chills and fire and Grif is _gone_. 


End file.
